


To Kingdom Come

by QueenOfSmokeAndMirrors



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Canon-Typical Violence, Darkish Draco, Drama & Romance, F/M, Humor, Royal Draco, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Spy Hermione, court intrigue, darkish hermione
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-25 06:17:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13828263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenOfSmokeAndMirrors/pseuds/QueenOfSmokeAndMirrors
Summary: The land of Hogwarts is happy, healthy and free, under the benevolent rule of King Albus Dumbledore. But if that's true, why is baseborn peasant Hermione Granger acting as a spymistress to the rebellious House of Malfoy? Dramione Medieval-esque AU, featuring a Hermione occasionally without scruples and a Draco regularly without morals.





	1. Hogwarts: A History

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! Welcome to my first AO3 story (though it's also posted on FF.net :)

The great and noble land of Hogwarts was founded over a thousand years by the four powerful conquerors: Godric Gryffindor, Rowena Ravenclaw, Helga Hufflepuff, and Salazar Slytherin. They divided the land into four counties so that each could rule over one, and in the centre of Hogwarts they founded the capital city of Hogsmeade, that there might be some neutral place for them to convene.

Many years passed. The four counties had dukes set up over to them, who grew in might and stature. The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, arrogant and wealthy, were Dukes of Slytherin; the House of Lovegood, reputed to be as mad and clever as foxes, were Dukes of Ravenclaw; the proud hardworking House of Abbott ruled Hufflepuff, and last were the House of Weasley, who ruled the largest county of Gryffindor, but bore so many children that their coffers were quite depleted.

And then was the House of Malfoy. Ruthless they were, and famed for their beauty. Originally an average lord whose lands lay within the county of Slytherin, the tenth Earl Malfoy (a certain Nicholas Malfoy) crowned himself King of All Hogwarts and placed the Sorting Hat upon his head to seal his claim. Thus the Royal House of Malfoy ruled Hogwarts for many years, with the Sorting Hat being passed from father to son.

But then came Cygnus III Black, Duke of Slytherin. He overthrew and killed King Abraxas VIII, demoting the latter’s son back to the status of mere Earl Malfoy, and set himself up as King – only to be overthrown in turn by one Tom Riddle.

Ah, Tom Riddle. An anomaly indeed. His mother might have been a pureblood, daughter of the poverty-stricken aristocratic House of Gaunt, but his father was a mere middle-class merchant of the undistinguished Riddle family. From these humble beginnings grew Tom Riddle. His desire to ensconce himself amongst his betters was such that he invented himself a title – that of Lord Voldemort – and raised an army which crushed the one raised by King Cygnus Black. Voldemort the Usurper crowned himself Dark Lord of Hogwarts (though it is said the Sorting Hat denounced him) and proceeded to rule the land.

Abraxas Malfoy, the fourteenth Earl Malfoy, had had wit enough to foresee Lord Voldemort’s triumph, and had allied himself with him; in this way the Royal House of Malfoy was restored to some of their former glory, being richly rewarded for their loyalty. From thence comes their reputation for cunning and ambition. But they have never forgotten that once they were kings, and ever do they seek to wear the Sorting Hat once more. 

When King Cygnus was defeated, his original title of Duke of Slytherin passed to his last living male relative, a nephew named Sirius Black. The nephew died without spouse or heirs, and the title reverted to his female cousin Princess Bellatrix, King Cygnus’ daughter. She is known for her caprices; she denied the title, and allowed its passage to her younger sister Princess Narcissa, who now holds the title Duchess of Slytherin in her own right – the first female to do so since its creation. Her husband, by right of his wife, is entitled to be addressed as Duke of Slytherin also.

Her husband is not without title himself. He is Lucius Malfoy, fifteenth Earl Malfoy, son of Lord Voldemort’s greatest ally. Thusly are the House of Black and the House of Malfoy united, both with royal blood in their veins, and ever have they continued the struggle of their ancestors: Lucius Malfoy has sworn that he will one day wear the Sorting Hat as his ancestors wore it, and that his lady wife will be Queen of Hogwarts the way her father was King. 

But the Dark Lord himself was not all-powerful. There came to be a malcontent, Albus Dumbledore by name, born in the county of Gryffindor in the village of Godric’s Hollow; he dedicated his life to destroying the Dark Lord, and finally accomplished this feat in a duel. The Sorting Hat recognised him as its master. Though he demurred thrice, he was finally crowned King Albus of the barely-aristocratic House of Dumbledore, and it is he who rules now. He insists upon being referred to as His Serene Highness, instead of the greater address of His Royal Highness, to indicate his modesty.

But King Albus did not win by himself. A great help to him was the young Harry Potter, second Viscount Potter, also hailing from Godric’s Hollow. Since the King has no heirs, he has proclaimed that Lord Potter will succeed him.

Rebellions stirred by the House of Malfoy over the centuries since they lost the Sorting Hat have not been uncommon. They are closely watched by the King, and a Royal Decree bars the dukedom of Slytherin from maintaining its own private army, as the other dukedoms too. 

Such is the current state of Hogwarts…

_Geography of Hogwarts_

Hogsmeade, in the very centre of Hogwarts, is neutral; it was constructed in the shape of a square, and a different dukedom spreads out from its city walls in each of the four directions.

The county of Slytherin holds the west of Hogwarts. Its capital city is Wiltshire, with the Duke and Duchess holding court there at Malfoy Manor. Being a scion of formerly royal houses, their son Draco Malfoy is allowed the title of Prince. Slytherin, though small, is an extremely wealthy dukedom.

The county of Gryffindor rules the east. The current duke is Arthur Weasley, who has seven children with his duchess Lady Molly Prewitt, daughter of the fifth Earl of Gideon. The capital city of Gryffindor is Ottery St. Catchpole; the House of Weasley’s family seat is known (rather uncouthly) as the Burrow. 

The county of Ravenclaw is at the north of Hogwarts. The duke, Xenophilius Lovegood, has no offspring save his daughter Lady Luna, as he has refused to remarry since the duchess Pandora (surname unknown) died many years ago. They occupy Lovegood House in the capital city of Quibbler. 

The county of Hufflepuff lies to the east. Similar to the lack of a Duchess of Ravenclaw, there is no Duchess of Hufflepuff, as Giffard Abbott is unmarried. It is likely that his niece Hannah Abbott will inherit the title. She is married to Neville Longbottom, eighth Earl of St Mungo, and is therefore titled Countess of St Mungo. They all reside in the Leaky Cauldron, which is in the capital city of Diagonalley. 

-Extract taken from _Hogwarts: A History_ , 2586th edition, by Professor Bathilda Bagshot


	2. Prologue: In All the Wrong Places

Hermione Granger needed money.

This was nothing new; in all her sixteen years of life, she had frequently been in need of money, and only rarely had the gods delivered. She’d tried everything. She’d been a seamstress, a Thestral-keeper, a scullery maid, a washerwoman. In a moment of sheer desperation two months ago she’d even turned towards prostitution – only to discover that her bushy brown hair, slightly-too-plump figure and unfashionably tanned skin meant her worth was measured in Sickles rather than Galleons.   
Naturally, she’d only found this out after her first customer had already rutted inside her. Now that she wasn’t a virgin she couldn’t even daydream about ever being married to a rich, handsome nobleman.

Not that she ever had. Hermione Granger knew her station in life. She was far too practical for daydreams. 

She’d been born in a small village in the county of Gryffindor, the daughter of unmarried peasants Wendell Wilkins and Monica Granger. To add insult to injury, she wasn’t just a peasant: she was a bastard one. It seemed that her parents had never quite gotten around to tying the knot before her birth. Now they never could, since they had tragically disappeared quite a few years ago. 

Hermione had often wondered irritably why her mother hadn’t insisted on keeping her legs closed until Wendell had proposed. She did love her parents, it was just that they weren’t the ones who had been forced to bear the stigma of bastardry in her home village. It was her. Nobody would employ her in case her base blood somehow managed to taint them. She’d finally moved away from the village, wandering through all the counties in turn, looking for a job which either never materialised or never managed to last very long, until she’d ended up where she was right now: in Slytherin county, walking down a street in its capital of Wiltshire.

Hermione Granger still needed money.

She didn’t have much left of the food she’d stolen back in Ravenclaw county. Soon it would run out, and she didn’t dare steal any here – apparently the laws were strict in Slytherin. It was colder here too, and rainy, the foggy precipitation in the air soaking through her thin cloak. If she didn’t starve to death she’d probably freeze at nightfall. 

People hurried past her in relative silence. Hermione was in a middle-class part of the city where the inhabitants were all intent upon their business of making as much money as possible, no doubt in the hopes of sidling into the Rich Quarters of the city. She probably stuck out like a sore thumb. Her robes were much-darned and tattered, her cloak obviously shoddy; if she didn’t watch out she’d probably be kicked out for loitering by some suspicious official. What to do?

With a sigh Hermione decided to retrace her steps back into the Poor Quarters. She’d rented a room there in some third-rate inn called the Hog’s Head, though she hadn’t been stupid enough to leave anything important from her meagre belongings in it. 

Perhaps she could find some job sweeping streets. The gods knew she’d tried everything else. 

It began to rain. Heavy droplets splashed into the untameable mane of her hair, trickling icily down the back of her neck. Hermione drew her hood up, for all the good that did her, and quickened her pace. The last thing she needed was to catch pneumonia. 

It seemed everyone else was as keen as her to be out of the downpour, because soon she found that she was one of the only people out and about. The realisation sent uneasiness skittering down her spine. She entered the Poor Quarters – as signalled by the narrower streets, cracked cobblestones and sky-high piles of rubbish everywhere – and it was with relief that she arrived at the disgusting disembodied pig’s head sign of her inn. 

Hermione ran into the taproom, settling herself as close to the pathetic fire as possible. She couldn’t afford to change out of her wet robes. She only had the two sets, after all, and since the other was slightly less darned, she saved it for job interviews and the like. 

The taproom was almost deserted. Apart from the barman, who looked to be well over a hundred, there was a pair of figures with their faces concealed by hoods hunched muttering in a corner. Hermione was unsurprised by the clientele. The Hog’s Head was evidently the sort of establishment which was frequented by those thoroughly up to no good, as opposed to being slightly up to no good, like the rest of the Poor Quarters. No wonder she could afford to stay here. 

Driven by slightly bored curiosity, she proceeded to do something stupid: she listened.

Most people are aware that, when confronted with something like the Hog’s Head, it is better to pretend to be deaf, dumb and blind. This was something which the barman was a master of. It had saved his life many a time. Unfortunately, Hermione was the sort of person who could not resist this manner of situation, and so her head tilted slightly to the side as she rather obviously began to eavesdrop.

The conversation she overheard was to change the rest of her life.

“… the Manor,” one of the figures was saying, his voice a masculine rumble. “The duke’s well protected, not to mention the fact that he’s said to be deadly with the blades. Absolutely no point.”

“He might be deadly with the blades, but you can’t persuade me the duchess will be,” the other figure argued. His voice was slightly higher in tone. “She’s –”

“A Black,” the man interrupted. “That lot, they have all kinds of tricks up their sleeves, and we don’t want to cross Princess Bellatrix. Remember what she did to Selwyn when she discovered what he’d been doing to the Treasury?”

The other man shuddered. “Gods, don’t remind me. What about the little princeling?”

“You don’t know anything, do you? His spoiled little highness is down at Eton, all the way on the coast. That place is better protected than Hogsmeade. Nothing’s happening to him there.”

“Well then, we’re back to the original plan, aren’t we?”

“You mean the poison in his tea?”

“No, fool! I mean having Macnair shooting him so full of arrows when they go hunting tomorrow that his lordship resembles a pincushion!”

“That’s an excellent idea,” the man with the deep voice said. His cowled head lifted and swung round. “You think so too, don’t you, little whore?”

Hermione gasped and jumped to her feet. “Wha –”

“Because,” he continued, rising slowly, “I can’t imagine any other reason why you’d be listening so keenly. Can you, Goyle?”

Hermione went weak-kneed with terror, but her formidable brain noted something immediately: she now had a name for one of the faces, and she had another name besides. She wasn’t stupid. This sounded exactly like an assassination attempt on Lucius Malfoy, Duke of Slytherin, who would no doubt handsomely reward anyone who alerted him to treachery among his people…

“What do you mean?” she asked quaveringly.

Goyle laughed mockingly. “I love the ones who play innocent, Crabbe, I really do.”

They advanced towards her, skirting round the edges of their table. Hermione darted a glance at the barman. No help there – he had his head firmly down, wiping methodically at a glass with a dirty rag.

There was nothing else for it. Hermione put her head down and sprinted from the Hog’s Head like a bat out of hell, getting soaked through once again almost instantly with rain from the darkening sky. She spared a moment to regret the loss of her better robes, up in her room.

They’d be on her tail soon. If they had any brains at all they’d know her destination, though she frankly doubted – how stupid were they, that they had so easily given away their names? Perhaps the names were false. It didn’t matter right now.

Breathing raggedly through the burning stitch in her side, Hermione ran for Malfoy Manor.

Unsurprisingly, the servant who opened a back door of the manor at her banging looked at her like something he had picked off his shoe.

“No beggars,” he said. “Sorry.”

He tried to shut the heavy wooden door, but Hermione determinedly stuck her foot into the gap.

“I’m not a beggar,” she said. The words came out as heavy pants. Gods, but she was unfit. Why was it that no matter how little food she had, she never seemed to get thinner?

“I have important information for the Duke and Duchess,” she said. “You need to let me in.”

“I don’t have to do any such thing!” he snapped. “Be gone with you, before I have you arrested!”

He leaned on the door. Tears came to Hermione’s eyes at the pressure being exerted on her foot, but she held firm.

“Look. There is a plot to assassinate His Lordship at the hunting tomorrow. If you do not let me in, terrible things will happen. Do you understand?”

She’d caught his attention with that, she could see. Grudgingly he opened the door wider.

“You can tell the steward,” he said. “He’ll decide what’s to be done.”

Relief bubbled inside Hermione as she ducked inside the Manor. It seemed the door she’d found to knock frantically on belonged to the kitchens; her senses were instantly assaulted by the smell of roasting beef, making her mouth salivate. She swallowed with difficulty and followed the servant through the clouds of steam.

They emerged into a narrow back passageway. “Wait here,” he ordered. “I’ll fetch Sir Dobby.”

Hermione did so. Even in this unimportant part of the servants’ area, the floor was made of smooth stone, the walls draped with silken hangings. She barely had time to marvel at the Slytherins’ wealth before the servant was back. Behind him trailed what she thought at first was a child; upon closer inspection it turned out to be a man, but one so short that he barely came up to her shoulder, and she herself was no giantess. 

“You can return to your duties now, Bulstrode,” the steward ordered.

The servant bowed and retired.

“What is your name?” he asked, when it was merely the two of them in the passage.

Hermione’s fingers twisted in her robe. “Hermione Granger, sir. A Gryffindor by birth.”

“I see,” the steward said. She noticed that his eyes were rather remarkable, huge and palely green. “Your parents?”

“Wendell Wilkins and Monica Granger, sir. Both thought dead.”

His swift look let her know that he had noted the fact that she bore her mother’s surname, a sure indication of her bastardry, but all he said was, “And what do you have to tell me, Miss Granger?”

She recounted the entire conversation she had heard in the Hog’s Head. Sir Dobby’s indrawn breath when he heard the names Crabbe, Goyle and Macnair let her know what she needed to: that her information was useful. She allowed herself to relax slightly.

“An interesting story,” he said. “If it is true, His Lordship and Her Ladyship will certainly need to hear it.”

“Every word of it is gold,” she promised. He gave her an enigmatic look.

“I shall let the duke and duchess decide. Come with me.”

He turned and set off without looking to see if she was following. Her heart pounding, Hermione kept close on his heels. 

He led her through the passageways of Malfoy Manor. Hermione saw how the furnishings became more opulent as they passed away from the servants’ areas, how jewelled tapestries appeared on the walls and the floor turned from unremarkable stone to the dark gloss of expensive wood. Finally he stopped before a door and knocked.

“Who is it?” A light, feminine voice called.

“Sir Dobby, Your Ladyship,” he said. “I believe I have something of great import for you.”

“Come in then,” the voice replied. 

The knowledge that she was about to face the great duke and duchess of the realm, the powerful royal figures whose stories she had read in history books at her village school, caught up with Hermione abruptly, and she fought to remain steady as she followed Dobby inside the room with her head bowed respectfully. She, Hermione Granger, was about to meet the Duke and Duchess of Slytherin! She was about to meet royalty! 

Mentally preparing herself for the awe and reverence their presences would induce in her, Hermione lifted her head. She blinked.

The Duke and Duchess of Slytherin were naked.

Lucius Malfoy was even more handsome than the stories had made him out to be; his hair fell to halfway down his back in a shining sheet of white-gold, somehow not detracting in the slightest from the arrogant, sharply masculine planes of his face. Powerful muscles rippled in his bare torso as he sat up in the immense four-poster bed. Lounging beside him, Narcissa Black was no less beautiful, her own hair a slightly darker shade of blonde as it spread out over the headboard. The only item she wore was an immense emerald collar that only drew attention to her full, milky-white breasts.

Hermione tried not to feel faint. She kept her eyes determinedly fixed on Lucius Malfoy’s face as he demanded, “Who on earth is this?”

“Hermione Granger, Your Lordship,” Dobby said. “She has overheard a plot regarding you.” He flicked her a glance. Catching it, she began her story.

“Oh, I knew he was not to be trusted!” Narcissa cried when Macnair’s name was mentioned. She turned to her husband. “Didn’t I tell you so?”

“So you did, my beauty,” Lucius said. His wintry-grey eyes were fixed on Hermione, who was trying not to notice as he simultaneously toyed with one of his wife’s pink nipples. “Go on, girl.”

Hermione concluded her tale with the names of Crabbe and Goyle and looked at the couple expectantly. Narcissa sighed.

“If you are telling the truth,” she said, “I will see to it that you do not regret it. Until tomorrow when we can ascertain this for sure, you will be an honoured guest.”

“Of course, Your Ladyship,” Hermione said. ‘Guest’, she knew, translated to ‘prisoner’, so that if it was discovered that she was lying it would be easy for them to make her wish she had never been born, but she had nothing to fear; she really was telling the truth. 

She watched in astonishment as Lucius leaned over to kiss Narcissa as though they neither had an audience nor had been told of his planned assassination.

“Come,” Sir Dobby muttered. They backed out of the room, although Hermione doubted that the ducal couple had noticed, they were so caught up in each other. She remembered that they had a son – some spoiled little boy, she seemed to recall – and pitied him, if he regularly had to contend with his overly-amorous parents. 

“That went very well indeed,” Dobby said. “Now, Miss Granger, allow me to show to your room.”

“It did,” Hermione agreed, smiling. 

Her life, she decided, had just taken an unexpected turn for the better.


	3. Chapter One: The Prodigal Son

_Two years later_

“Have you heard?” Alecto Carrow said eagerly. “The Prince is returning!”

Hermione did not look up. She sat at the immense desk in her room, absorbed in a scroll of parchment one of her many contacts had sent her, frowning slightly. Reports came in for her all the time from all over Hogwarts, and Hermione Granger was now a very busy woman indeed.

Her rise to success had been meteoric. The Malfoys had confirmed she was telling the truth about the assassination plot, of course. Crabbe, Goyle and Macnair had been rounded up immediately and placed in the dungeons. Hermione didn’t know precisely what had happened next, but she did know that the duchess’s sister Princess Bellatrix had arrived and spent quite a bit of time alone with the prisoners. Their screams had been audible throughout the Manor. 

Hermione, vindicated, had been given leave to ask one request of the Slytherins. She’d used her request wisely: she’d asked them for a job.

Considering her social status, she had expected to be set to work in the kitchens, or the Thestral stables, but she’d underestimated her employers; Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy had recognised her intellect and put it to good use by appointing her as one of their legion of spies. It was her job to be their eyes and ears in the world and report anything she encountered back. She’d fulfilled this admirably, so much so that when their previous spymaster Bartemius Crouch had come to a rather unfortunate end, Hermione had been given his place. 

“Hermione!” Alecto said indignantly. “Are you listening to me?”

“Of course,” Hermione said soothingly. Alecto Carrow was a good source of gossip. “What were you saying again?”

The older woman scowled and crossed her arms over her chest. “I said, Prince Draco is returning!”

“I know,” Hermione said. It was her bloody job to know. “I take it you’re excited?”

“Along with every other red-blooded woman in this place,” Alecto said, smirking. “Gods, that boy…” She sighed happily. “Just looking at him makes me wet. You know?”

Hermione didn’t. She’d never personally met Lucius and Narcissa’s only offspring, and if the rumours were anything to go by, she didn’t particularly want to. The young Prince Draco – he was nearly a full year younger than she was – was famed for exploits involving women and wine, like most typical pureblood males of that age. He’d repeatedly been found drunk with girls in his room at Eton. Any other boy would have been instantly expelled for such misdemeanours, but Lucius was on the board of governors, so naturally he’d received the lightest of wrist-slaps. 

Narcissa talked about Draco incessantly as well. It was clear that he was outrageously babied by his doting mother and affectionately indulged by his proud father; Hermione was rather jealous. Even before they’d disappeared her own parents had been the strict kind. Surprising really, when you considered that they’d had her out of wedlock.

“He’s finally finished his schooling,” Alecto said, “and he’s coming back home to be married. You have no idea how much every woman in the Manor’s looking forward to it. I wish I knew when he was returning…”

Hermione recognised a hint when she heard it.

“In a few hours,” she said. Her eyes rolled. “Now please, for the love of the gods, will you get out and let me finish reading this in peace?”

“I heard that Prince Draco had an orgy once with the Travers sisters and Druella Burke at the same time,” Alecto said thoughtfully. “They’re all blonde. Do you think he has a particular thing for blondes? Should I dye my hair?”

Hermione gritted her teeth. Dammit, this was an important report she was trying to read here. “Feel free to do so. Also feel free to exit my room right now. Are we clear?”

“Fine,” Alecto pouted as she sidled out. “You really shouldn’t be so mean to me. Otherwise I won’t ask the prince to include you as well when he invites me to fuck him. I was going to, you know.”

“I think I’ll manage to live without having had a threesome involving you and Draco Malfoy,” Hermione muttered dryly. 

Her room now blessedly empty, she returned her attention to the report. It had been sent from the Three Broomsticks, a famously exclusive hotel in the Hogwarts capital of Hogsmeade. The owner, Rosmerta, was secretly loyal to Slytherin, and regularly passed on useful titbits about King Albus Dumbledore or Harry Potter, Viscount Potter.

It had not taken much to turn Hermione against her king. After all, she did not know him: he had never offered her a job or a roof over her head, and had never reformed the country’s laws to enable her to procure either of those things easily. Additionally, as the Duke and Duchess had pointed out to her, the Dumbledore family was barely worthy of aristocracy, while the houses of Black and Malfoy had previously worn the Sorting Hat. They were the obvious choice of leader.

The fact that she’d been promised a suitable role in their future court had played no small part in her decision, of course. 

Hermione’s coffee-brown eyes narrowed as she scanned the parchment. Rosmerta’s news was… interesting.

_The King has decided that, now that his heir has finished his schooling, he must have a wife. To that end, he will be holding a Yule Ball in three days’ time, to show off all the daughters of the aristocracy so that Potter can choose a pureblood wife. Gossip says that he currently favours Lady Ginevra Weasley, but this changes almost daily – yesterday he was seen in the company of Miss Cho Chang, and last week he was being hounded by the Honourable Miss Romilda Vane._

A Yule Ball? Those hadn’t been held in Hogwarts for quite some time. It was traditional for pureblood families with sons to hold bride-hunting balls, of course, but a genuine Yule Ball was for the son of the monarch, and consequently there hadn’t been one since Lucius’s grandfather King Abraxas VIII. 

A Yule Ball meant hundreds of people. It meant gossip being exchanged and secrets being made, transmuting into the lifeblood of any spy worth her salt. 

But this was too important a chance to let one of her thousand lackeys go. Hermione was going to be at the Yule Ball herself.

Done with the report, she threw it into the fireplace, where a fire burned day and night regardless of the weather outside. She watched it carefully to ensure that only ash remained. Many a spy had been discovered by failing to dispose of their correspondence appropriately. When that had happened to one of Hermione’s own spies, resulting in his capture by Hufflepuff, she’d dispatched him herself for his sheer idiocy.

Hermione did not like idiots.

Unfortunately, there was every chance that she’d have to meet one soon in the person of Prince Draco Malfoy, returning heir to the dukedom and – if all went well – one-day heir to the throne. 

She did not usually tend to make pre-emptive judgements about people; it was terribly rude, not to mention potentially fatal for a spy. (Hermione took spying very seriously). But in this situation, she’d been inundated with so much gossip about him – his godly looks, his innumerable feminine conquests, his propensity for drinking and spending money like it was going out of fashion – that she felt justified in deciding he was not somebody she wanted to get to know.

She groaned and crossed over to her bed. As if it was her choice. Narcissa had already insisted that she wanted her chief of spies to meet her son, because after all, she would be his chief of spies someday. Hermione shuddered at the thought.

She still had a few hours left before the prodigal son’s return. It was time to snatch some sleep.  
\---  
Hermione was awoken by a fanfare of trumpets. 

She leapt out of bed instantly, knowing that the time had come. Curiosity drove her towards her window. It was forward-facing, and by peering out, she could see a huge black carriage drawn by skeletal Thestrals slowly trundling up the wide marble path. The Black and Malfoy coats-of-arms were painted on the door. 

It seemed that Prince Draco Malfoy had returned.

The carriage stopped almost directly under her, several hundred feet down. Hermione leaned out a little further to optimise her view. The trumpets had stopped playing; a liveried servant hurried across to the carriage. He opened the door.

Probably it was just her fanciful imagination, but the world seemed to hold its breath as the prince stepped out.

Hermione was disappointed. Prince Draco was tall, muscled lithely rather than bulkily, his hair so blond that the sun flamed off it. His skin was pale enough that she would have bet money on it glowing in the dark. The ivory tone was in stark contrast to the unrelieved black of his fine-cut cloak, robes and boots. From here she couldn’t see his face, but the way he began to walk inside the castle suggested casual arrogance, a slinky high-handedness that would doubtless infuriate at some point down the line.

Yes, she was disappointed. Why was it that – for once – the rumours about his looks had turned out to be true? Rumours were never true!

She wriggled into a set of moderately fancy dress robes. She didn’t want to look like she was trying too hard, but there was no need to come down looking like the poor peasant she’d once been. A quick brush of her hair made it as non-bushy as it would ever be.

Then Hermione waited. She would be summoned when the time was right.

The time became right a scant half an hour later; there was a tentative knock on the door, and her barked “Come in!” revealed a blushing young maid.

“Yes?” Hermione said.

“Her Ladyship’s askin’ for your kind presence in the Green Room, ma’am,” the girl said, unable to meet Hermione’s eyes. “The – the p-p-prince D-Draco –”

“You may leave,” she snapped. 

Looking as though she were biting back a giggle, the housemaid fled. Hermione began to be worried. It seemed that his effect upon women had not been exaggerated either, if the stuttering and blushing was commonplace. Really, it was ridiculous! 

She brushed herself down once last time and proceeded to one of Malfoy Manor’s many drawing rooms. Inside, she could hear Narcissa’s girlish laughter, along with an unfamiliar, deeper voice. She gathered her self-confidence around her and knocked.

Hermione advanced into the room. The Green Room was, unsurprisingly, green; hung in every shade of it, from emerald to jade to grass. Narcissa sat in Lucius’s lap in a chartreuse armchair. There was a figure sitting straight-backed in the sofa beside them whom she carefully avoided looking at.

“At your service, Your Lordship, Your Ladyship,” she said crisply.

“Hermione!” Narcissa said brightly. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet. Draco, darling,” she turned to the sofa, “this is Hermione Granger, my spymistress.”

Left with no other choice, Hermione mentally prepared herself for otherworldly beauty and dropped a curtsey. “At your service, my lord.”

She saw him as she straightened. Draco Malfoy’s face was not, as she had rather expected, a younger copy of his father’s. He had Lucius’s gunmetal-grey eyes, yes, but the stunningly fine bone structure could have come from either of his parents, and his full pink lips were neither as cruel as his father’s nor as pouty as his mother’s. Instead they looked rather sulky. Though when he pursed them like that, yes, she could see how they had hints of ruthlessness which would become more evident as he got older – 

Hermione realised with horror that, despite all her mental preparation, she was still staring. The duke and duchess looked amused. Draco himself seemed fairly bored. He must be used to it, she thought resentfully. Living around people who looked like the Malfoys was going to give her a complex.

“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Granger,” he said. His eyes dipped down her body, lingering at the pronounced curve of her hips. Hermione fought a glare. She knew her hips were horrendously wide, but did he have to make it so obvious? And did his gaze have to feel like it was leaving a trail of fire across her skin?

She pulled herself together and very firmly faced her employers. “I have news, Your Ladyship.”

“Do tell,” Narcissa said. 

Hermione thought she could still feel him staring. Or rather, the truth probably was that her subconscious actually wanted him to be staring; she didn’t particularly want to be attracted to him, but since it felt like a bloody biological imperative to be attracted to him right now, her subconscious must be sending her these weird little signals that made it feel like he was possibly undressing her with his eyes from behind her. The thought made her hot.

She resolved to give her subconscious a stern talking-to and tried again.

“Um, yes. So. I’ve received a report from Madam Rosmerta, the proprietor of the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade, and it seems that the King is planning on holding a Yule Ball for his heir –”

“You have the invitation to that, don’t you, son?” Lucius said suddenly. 

Hermione was forced to look at him then.

“What? Oh, yeah, I do,” Draco said lazily. He was staring at her. She coughed. 

“I’m in his year at school,” he continued. “Or I was, I suppose, since we’ve just left. He’s a right prick. And insufferably stupid.”

“So was his father,” Lucius said. “James Potter was a couple of years under me at Eton… didn’t know the meaning of self-control.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I’m not sure you do either, Father. Could you please not do that when I’m in the room?”

“So sorry, darling,” Narcissa said, batting her husband’s hands away from where they’d been slipping inside her bodice. “In any case, you must be exhausted. Off you go!”

With relief, but also a strange disappointment, Hermione hastily backed out of the room.


End file.
